


to teach me a lesson on how to be brave (it’s my latest obsession)

by stardustgirl



Series: the dead go on before us [6]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: (...or being broken out of prison), (ok so she doesn’t really yell but. y’all know.), (or in prison), Adult Ezra Bridger, Adult Tristan Wren, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Angst, Bisexual Ezra Bridger, Codependency, Dark Ezra Bridger, Dissociation, Enter Sabine!, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone in this fic needs therapy I’m sorry, Everyone is Dead, Ezra Bridger Has PTSD, Ezra Bridger Needs a Hug, FebuWhump2021, Febuwhump, Flashbacks or Breakdowns choose your fighter, Gay Tristan Wren, Gen, Heavy Angst, Inquisitor Ezra Bridger, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Past Suicide Attempt, Purple Prose, Repressed Memories, Sabine Wren Has PTSD, Sabine Wren Needs a Hug, Sabine yells at them until they realize it’s unhealthy tho dw, The Empire Wins (Star Wars), Tristan Wren Has PTSD, Tristan Wren Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, as usual, but with ANGST!, do i care? absolutely Not, is the title unashamedly stolen from “coraline” by arrested youth ?, plot twist you get both, space road trip!, why yes yes it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustgirl/pseuds/stardustgirl
Summary: Tristan and Ezra reach a roadblock, an understanding, and each other.  Oh, and Sabine, too.
Relationships: Ezra Bridger & Sabine Wren, Ezra Bridger & Tristan Wren, Ezra Bridger/Tristan Wren, Sabine Wren & Tristan Wren
Series: the dead go on before us [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882459
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so general trigger warnings for this fic in no particular order: Referenced Torture, Saxon Being A Creep, Referenced Major Character/Parental Figure Death, Referenced Sexual Assault, Dissociation, Seven Being A Creep, Codependency, General Trauma, uhhhh and General Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
> 
> so, basically, perfect for whumptober :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for “Broken Trust” (of a sort...?) for Whumptober.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Referenced Torture, Referenced Parental Figure Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Dissociation, Unhealthy Relationship/Codependency (it’s not abusive tho dw just. not great aha.)

Mandalore looms before them, like a shadow over his future. And Twelve doesn’t doubt its role as such.

Footsteps draw his attention away from the viewport; he doesn’t need to look to know it’s Tristan.

“Ready?”

Twelve nods silently, even though he’s not. Even though he never will be.

He wants to ask Tristan what it’s like, coming back to such an important place after they’d left in such an odd fashion. It’s a bit like stepping into the ocean, he thinks, like knowing the water will be cold yet still subjecting oneself to the chill.

Twelve takes the pilot’s seat, masking their ship as he guides them into the atmosphere. Tristan offers suggestions and directions periodically, but remains silent otherwise, and Twelve lets himself cautiously reach out toward the twisted bond Seven had hammered into the Force in the aftermath of the disintegration of his bond with Kanan.

The bond is still there, thrumming with a familiar venom that crawls its way beneath his skin. He checks to make sure his signature is completely hidden before probing further, tracing the bond back to its source. She’s far away. Good. They don't need anything else complicating this.

They land within Sundari, in a hangar that Twelve uses a Force suggestion to get permission to enter. Twelve leads the way out, following the tug his sister-in-arms has always exerted on his soul in such a subtle way out of the shipyards. He slows as they find a group of speeders, all locked down. Glancing over his shoulder, Twelve recalls the hotwiring lessons Kanan had instilled in him, “just in case.”

Ironic, that those lessons are only coming into play now, when Kanan’s long dead and gone.

He gets one up and running within a few minutes and starts on the next, passing the first to Tristan. Twelve tugs a hood over his head, and he knows beside him, Tristan does the same. Helmets can only hide so much.

Twelve keeps his shield up the whole time they ride through the dome, warning away any others who even come close with a strong push in the Force. He keeps his their pace brisk, too, enough so that Tristan has to practically grab his wrist to stop him when they slow to avoid an imperial transport.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he asks in a low voice. Twelve can’t help the flash of anger that rises up.

“Of _course_ I do!”

“How?”

An accusation. Tristan thinks he was _involved_ with Sabine’s capture, with her imprisonment.

_Because you_ were, a voice spits, mocking him. He ignores it.

“Because I just _do,_ ” he snaps, turning and pulling himself out of Tristan’s grasp. He tries to tamp down the anger as the distant tug on his mind grows stronger, but it’s hard. If he isn’t angry he’s empty, he’s longing, he’s self-pitying. And he’s been all of those for far too long now.

Anger is the only thing he has left that won’t leave him a whimpering shell cut down to dust by his own failure to be the person Tristan sees in him. And if that’s the price for keeping himself afloat, then he’ll pay it in a heartbeat.

Twelve slows his speeder to a stop at the front of a building set low to the ground, the entrance marked by a set of tall, opaque glass doors. He hears Tristan stop behind him.

“Why—“

Twelve shakes his head. “Gotta find another way in,” he mutters, half to himself, half to Tristan.

He turns in his seat, already scanning the exterior of the building to find a second entrance. He blocks out everything else, only searching for a way in, only searching for a place to get in and find Sabine—

“Ezra!”

He jumps at the hand on his shoulder— _her_ hand on his shoulder, nails digging through his thin uniform as she mentions what she wishes he would be doing right now instead of just standing there—and turns. Tristan is gesturing ahead of them.

“Come on. I found one.”

Grudgingly, he follows Tristan in.

* * *

The halls of the detention block are cold.

Tristan usually feels at home in places like that, but it’s a sickening, twisted sense of the word now; whatever environment the cold is meant to mimic, it is not the Krownest that _he_ knows; it is a Krownest that is upside down and backwards and filled with hauntings of long-gone ghosts.

Tristan shivers.

“Are– are you cold?”

He jumps at the sudden voice in the quiet, and turns to see Ezra looking at him with an odd expression. He shrugs before remembering himself.

“I’m fine.”

He’s not talking about the temperature, and they both know that.

Tristan slows to a stop at a data terminal, logging in with his old cadet ID. The system doesn’t seem to mind, thankfully, and allows him in, and he quickly searches for _Sabine Wren._

Nothing.

He tries just _Wren,_ then, but comes up empty-handed. Agitated, he tries _Duchess._

That’s what she’d named her hand-crafted monster that was meant to be a pet for Clan Saxon and the Empire, so he wouldn’t put it past them to call _her_ that, too.

But that search returns nothing, either.

“Let me try.”

He steps back as Ezra moves forward, typing in something quickly. There’s a soft beep from the terminal, and Tristan shifts forward to see why.

One result. Not for _Sabine Wren,_ not for _Wren,_ not even for _Duchess._

One result, for _Spectre Five._

He downloads her cell location onto his gauntlet, ignoring the way Ezra’s eyes linger on the display screen of the terminal with a mixture of longing and something like shame. Tristan swallows, hard, before moving to address it.

“Is that—”

“Code name. From when we worked together,” is all Ezra offers, his tone curt. The darkness that always lies so close to his surface is boiling, now, stewing in his eyes, so Tristan doesn’t press the question.

“Come on,” he says instead, gesturing. Ezra follows him as he heads down the hall, following the directions on his gauntlet. She’s located in a high security part of the prison, several levels down, so he heads for the ‘lifts.

The silence presses in around them once inside, and Tristan wants to do something about it, wants to _so badly_ he needs it like breathing, but he has to keep reminding himself that Ezra is still hesitant to tell him what he truly thinks of their fragile parallels. He can’t keep throwing himself upon the shore and hope Ezra can find him before the tide does, not if he can’t tell how Ezra really feels about any—about _all—_ of this.

_He seemed to feel pretty good about it back when you were kissing him against that wall and he asked if—_

No. He won’t indulge in circles. For all he knows, Ezra has just viewed him as a way to get back at the Empire, as a way to say “kriff you” to an organization that spoke so loudly against their kind of love.

For all he knows, Ezra has just viewed him as something to pass the time, as a way to feel good.

It’s that last one that hurts Tristan the most.

The lift halts, and the doors slide open to reveal another long, long row of cold classification. He steps out first, checking his gauntlet again.

“She’s cell two sixty see,” he announces, and Ezra nods from beside him. He moves to go, but there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Tristan...I need you to understand something.” Ezra’s voice is quiet, not unusual, but something about the way he says it makes Tristan’s hair stand on end. “The Empire….When I was captured, with– with our crew’s leader, they….The Empire isn’t kind. They won’t give you mercy.”

Tristan nods, gaze hard as he meets Ezra’s blue-gold eyes. “I think I know that,” he remarks dryly, and yes, maybe it’s a bit cold, but it’s already freezing down here and at this point he wouldn’t be surprised if Ezra’s cold inside, too.

“No, I mean...I mean I _know_ you know that. But I just...I want to warn you, Tristan. She won’t be the same person she was when you saw her last. The Empire—”

“She’s been dealing with the Empire a lot longer than you realize,” Tristan snaps, turning and striding ahead again. “I think she’s got it under control by now.”

And with that, he heads off toward Sabine’s cell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Referenced Torture, Referenced Parental Figure Death, Seven Being A Creep, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Saxon Being A Creep, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Ideation, Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Unhealthy Relationship/Codependency

She’s floating.

She’s floating most of the time, now, and it isn’t quite painful, but it isn’t quite comfortable, either.

She gets something almost like a feeling, sometimes, something that pulls at her and says she should be screaming, should be pounding at a glass wall she can’t see as tears stream down her cheeks and yelling for _somebody_ to let her out so she can run run _run_ and go save them all before—before—

And then that almost-feeling disappears, and she’s back to floating.

She minds the distraction, wishes it wouldn’t take her from the peaceful half-sleep of floating (something is _very_ wrong you need to get out get out get out they’ve got everyone you know and love—), but overall, it isn’t too bad. It’s just a few moments away from (please please please you need to _leave_ you need to hurry and get out of here before—) the suspension of sensation, but that’s all she knows now, so it’s fine (it is _not_ fine something is wrong please you need to fight and get out you can’t keep staying here), it’s fine.

It’s easier to let the distraction pass without giving too much of her attention to it.

Sometimes, they take Sabine out, and she _feels_ everything again.

“Do you know what I am doing, what I _have_ done, to your brother?” a voice asks, and she’ll blink past the pain in her eyes caused by the light and try to remember a name to match the face above her.

“...who?” she’ll ask, voice crackling.

“ _Tristan Wren,_ ” he’ll say, smiling like it’s some great big joke she’s the only one not in on. “Do you know how he _wept_ when I summoned him to—”

She’ll try to rise, to get up and weakly swing a fist at him, but he’ll only laugh as she collapses back to her knees.

“I’ll tell you just how he _begged_ to do anything for me to let you go, too,” he’ll say, still smiling as he crouches down to her level.

She’ll stare up in her strongest attempt at defiance, but it’ll be nothing more than tired eyes half-hardened into a glare, and he’ll laugh again.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen, _Sabine Wren,_ ” he’ll say, tipping her chin up with a thumb. “To think that I have _both_ the Wren children at my disposal, and one who will do anything he can for a passing grade, just to stay at the top of his class so he can graduate and come serve me fully.”

And then at some point he’ll always call for the guards and have them place her back in, will watch with that hated smile as she cries out and struggles weakly against being closed inside again where it’s dark and it’s endless and it’s cold—

And then she’ll be floating.

And everything (nothing is fine nothing is fine _nothing is fine—_ ) will be fine.

And then they take her out, and she squints into the light, and a long-lost but oh so familiar voice says, “Sabine?”

* * *

It takes her a minute to come back to them.

Twelve spends that minute sitting back on his heels, chewing his lip worriedly. It’s a habit he picked up from Tristan, he realizes. Or maybe before him. Maybe he got it from Seven? From the way she would—

“Ez– Ezra?”

He blinks, glancing down at her. “Hey, Sabine. You okay?”

She’s propped herself up with one arm, an arm that’s shaking wildly. Without warning, she grips his arm with her other hand, light eyes wild and unfocused.

“They’re going– going after the base next. On– the one on Yavin IV, can you—“

He swallows, hard, remembering Seven’s fingers digging into his shoulders and pinning him down as she whispered the fates of everyone he knew into his ear.

“I’m sorry, Sabine,” is all he says instead.

She blinks, gaze still shifting between aware and somewhere else. “Why? You don’t have– don’t have to be sorry, there’s still time, we can—“

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Twelve repeats, voice firm even as his heart trembles. “They already did. You’re a few years….You’re a few years too late.”

Her eyes focus. Unfocus. Focus again. Like a holocam shutter, he thinks absently.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, fragile, a baby bird that teeters on the brink of death and flight on the edge of its nest.

“... _what?_ ”

Tristan comes, then, kneeling beside Twelve. “Sabine?” he asks, voice full of a hope Twelve used to know intimately.

She turns to him, and then her lips start to tremble, and Twelve watches as she crumbles.

“I’m _sorry,_ ” she whispers.

“For what?” Tristan asks, confused. His brows draw together, and Sabine swallows, hard.

“For everything– everything he made you do to– to keep me—“

Tristan suddenly shuts down, and he clears his throat. “Let’s go.”

They help Sabine up, and Twelve tries to break the awkward silence. “We brought blasters, are you...are you well enough for that?”

Sabine snorts. “I’m a Mandalorian, Ezra. Of course I am.”

He passes her one, but notes the way she sways slightly upon straightening fully. “I’ll be fine in a couple of minutes,” she mutters, brushing Tristan’s hand off of her shoulder.

He nods, but his expression is detached, somewhere far away from this prison, but maybe not from Mandalore. Returning his attention to Sabine, Twelve jerks his head. “This way.”

They follow him to the ‘lift, and he tries to hide his concern as Sabine practically collapses against the wall, tipping her head back and closing her eyes with a sigh.

“I’ve got us a route out,” Tristan says, breaking the silence. Twelve raises a brow.

“No, I’ve got it. You led us in here, but I’ve got a good enough sense of Imp facilities to get us out.”

“And? I’ve got the map.”

For some reason, this irritates Twelve, makes him want to shout about how _he’s_ the one who worked for the Empire for two years straight while Tristan just _studied._

_That’s not fair, and you know it isn’t._

He knows. But he finds he can’t care.

They reach the level they need and Sabine’s stable enough to walk without swaying, though she still clutches at the blaster he gave her with both hands as if she’s never seen it before.

He knows the feeling; he was like that the first time Seven allowed him a vibroblade.

_And then you got it taken away because you were a bad child, because you tried to kill yourself with it._

He did. He still wishes he had succeeded, sometimes, when he’s not losing himself with Tristan. This is why he needs to forget.

They leave the ‘lift, and Tristan takes the lead. The Loth-wolf that paces within Twelve growls at that, tells him that _he_ should be the one in charge here; _he’s_ the one who has been trapped in Imp prisons before. He shoves those thoughts away, just following Tristan and making sure Sabine doesn’t start getting unsteady again.

And then, just as they’re rounding a corner, the klaxons go off.

“Come on!” Tristan hisses, gesturing. He pulls a blaster, and Sabine and Twelve speed up.

And then Twelve hears the boots.

Something in him _snaps,_ the same way it did when they dragged him from the interrogation room just after the news of Atollon, the same way he did as they dragged him down that hall and every lightbulb of the old facility shattered and popped in the wake of his fury, his _agony._ He steps forward as troopers round the corner, readying the Force to listen to him.

And then _Tristan_ is there, shooting them, and they’re all on the ground in varying states of death and disarray before Twelve can hardly blink. He turns to Tristan, glaring.

“Why didn’t you let me take them?! I could’ve taken them!”

“Ezra—“ Sabine starts, but she doesn’t get to finish.

“Those were _mine,_ ” he continues, even as Tristan’s brow shoots up higher.

“Does it really matter? We got them out of the way. Now come on, we need to go.” He gestures, turning, and Sabine moves as if to go after him. When Tristan rounds the corner, however, she stops.

Sabine whirls on him, her anger practically _shouting_ through the Force as she jabs a finger at him. “I don’t know what the _kriff_ is going on with you, Ezra, but get yourself together. If we want to get out of here alive, then we need everyone on the same page. Which means you need to stop doing this.”

“Look, I’m just telling you, if—“

“ _No._ End of discussion. We can argue about this when we’re all alive and out of Imperial custody. Compartmentalize like Kanan taught you.” She turns back, drawing the vibroblade again as she rounds a corner to catch up with Tristan. Twelve stays where she left him, her words hurtling at a million parsecs within his mind.

_Compartmentalize like Kanan taught you. Compartmentalize like Kanan taught you. Compartmentalize like Kanan—_

The heat from the blade lingers in the wound, radiating outward even to where he’s being held back by several troopers as the light fades and he turns to Ezra, opening his mouth to speak until—

“I found us a way out; let’s go!”

Pushing away thoughts of _Ezra,_ Twelve hurries to catch up to the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've literally had this written since october so idk why i'm only now posting it but. c'est la vie when lgbt
> 
> OH and ALSO astropixie did this beautiful art for me for an exchange we participated in and. that was also definitely an impetus towards my posting this JGHJKSGF anyway you can check it out below vvv  
> https://astropixie.tumblr.com/post/639154024184152065/scenes-from-stardustgirls-series-the-dead-go-on


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for "Recovery" for Febuwhump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mental Breakdown, Referenced Torture, Suicidal Ideation (not acted upon), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Unhealthy Relationship/Codependency, Dissociation, Referenced Parental Figure Death

He pushes away the nagging thoughts until they round the next corner.

He pushes away the nagging thoughts until he stuns another trooper.

He pushes away the nagging thoughts until they’re on the speeders.

He pushes away the nagging thoughts until they reach the ship.

He pushes away the nagging thoughts until Sabine’s inside and sitting down.

He pushes away the nagging thoughts until he can close the refresher door on himself and _break._

Tristan leans against the back of it and slides to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest as he shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes. What’s wrong? Why is he breaking down all of a sudden?! They’ve got Sabine, they’ve got their escape route, they’ve got each other.

So _why the kriff can he suddenly not_ **_breathe?_ **

_“There we go boy, that’s it. Easy.” Hands pressing him back, back, back until he’s staring at the ceiling._

_He studies the way the plates of the ceiling fit together, even as a headache blooms behind his eyes and he wonders what it would take for him to be able to slip out through a crack in one of those plates._

_Why is he crying?_

_There’s someone in the room with him, he thinks, but his mouth won’t open to tell them to leave; he only continues to get ready for his classes later as a voice confirms, “You’ll report back here after, yes?”_

_Why can’t he_ **_breathe?_ **

A rapping on the door he uses as support, and a voice. “Tristan?”

“Come– come in,” he gasps out.

The handle jiggles, and then, “It’s locked.”

“So– I’m sorry.”

Get up.

He lowers his hands, placing them on the floor and pushing himself upwards.

Turn to the door.

He turns.

Reach for the handle, and unlock it.

He does.

The door immediately opens to reveal Ezra’s face nearly inches from his, golden eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

Tristan barely manages to shake his head before bursting into tears.

Ezra reaches out, probably just to hug him, but for whatever reason the thought of being touched right now sends him reeling and he staggers backwards and away, shaking his head. Ezra pauses, at least, confusion and concern intertwined across his face.

“Do you...d’you wanna talk? About…?”

Tristan shakes his head again, and Ezra nods, carefully shutting the door behind him as he exhales slowly. “Okay. Okay,” he says to himself. Tristan can only watch, numb, feeling like he’s behind a transparisteel wall and screaming to where no one can hear.

Eventually, he manages to get himself under control long enough that Ezra can help him ease back onto the floor. Tristan leans back against the wall as Ezra sits a few feet away across from him, gaze still careful.

“Did...did something happen back in Sundari? Just now, I mean.”

He shakes his head again, closing his eyes and exhaling. That only makes it worse, though; every time his eyes close he’s left staring at plates on the ceiling as he wishes he were anywhere else, wishes he were dead, wishes he were locked away in an _actual_ prison because this room is one in all but name.

“You too?” Ezra asks into the silence, his voice snowfall-soft just like it was that first time he’d asked, just like Tristan knew it would be the minute he let his guard down, let himself be revealed as a victim—

_But why are you a victim?_

He swallows, hard, past the shame lodged in his throat, and says, “No. I’m– I’m fine. Today’s just...I didn’t think we’d go back so soon.”

“Oh. Yeah, I….Yeah. Makes sense.”

There’s something buried just beneath Ezra’s words, but Tristan is too exhausted to make it out. Instead, he says, “We...should probably get out of here.”

“Sure,” Ezra says, and they rise together. Tristan clears his throat as Ezra turns to open the door.

“I know we’re still...figuring things out. But, with Sabine back...we don’t really have another cabin. So if...if you wanted to come back into mine…?”

Ezra smiles, a genuine, but haunted, expression. “I’d love that.”

Tristan tells himself the desperation within Ezra’s eyes is just out of a need for connection, and not out of a more basic need that Tristan just happens to be able to fulfill. He tells himself Ezra’s just glad because it means that they’re (hopefully) moving back into how things used to be despite their earlier spats today. He tells himself that Ezra really _does_ love him, and is just unsure of how to show it, because he’s a victim, too— _a victim of_ what?—and he’s only defending himself the best way he knows how.

But a part of him wonders.

* * *

Several hours after he hears Tristan through the walls, and while they’re already well on their way into hyperspace, Twelve finds Sabine in the galley, sitting in a chair and looking as if she’s been trying to hold up the galaxy for too long by now. He sits down across from her, picking at the fraying threads on the edge of his overcoat. He can feel her gaze on him, but doesn’t acknowledge it, instead continuing to fidget with everything he can to avoid recognizing the bantha in the room. Several minutes pass.

And she’s watching him, still.

The tension is palpable, like the withheld breath you take when swimming or the way the Dark felt, at first, on Malachor and at Fortress Inquisitorius. Twelve longs to cut it with a vibroblade, to sever its hold on him and on her and on this semblance of the _Ghost_ that still haunts them so that he isn’t left to face the dead in the water whenever he lets that breath out. All it’s doing it making him wish they _were_ still back on the _Ghost,_ that Kanan and Hera are talking in the corner and kissing when they think no one else is watching while Zeb and Chopper argue over the logistics of taking out a squad of troopers from an aerial perspective as Sabine is leading him to where Zeb keeps his shampoo and showing him how to replace it with bright pink dye that will only last a few hours, but instead they’re sitting in the soulless galley of a stolen ship and trying not to admit that their lives have both fallen apart all over again in the years past.

He tries to look at her without looking, like trying to look at the shadow in the corner of the mirror before it can vanish without a trace. She, unlike the shadow, catches on immediately, raising a dark brow. It’s weird, he thinks absently, seeing her without her hair colored.

“What happened to you?”

She laughs, but it has a rough edge to it he’s never heard from anyone but Kanan when they realized who Ahsoka’s “friends” were. “ _You’re_ asking _me?_ I just grew up.” Her cold smile falls, however, and twists into an uneasy frown. “But what about _you,_ Ezra? Where...where did you…?”

He breaks eye contact, hand subconsciously tightening on his ‘saber. “I guess...I guess I just grew up, too,” he answers after a long minute of silence. “Or whatever is left of me did.”

“‘ _Akaan kyr’amu ori’shya kyrayc,_ ’” she says, her old, sad smile, the one he remembers, edging onto her face.

“What?”

“‘War kills more than the dead,’” she translates, rising. “I’m going to go check our course. You good to stay?”

He nods, eyes tracking her and yet nothing at all as she exits the common area.

He’s left thinking of innocence and fear, and how they’re so incapable of coexisting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been brought to you by a week of breakdowns+low blood sugar


End file.
